Day and Night
by RogerCrane
Summary: Han/Leia. Reminiscences of the 4-week flight to Bespin. Leia can no longer sleep without Han. (Set after events of ESB, before ROTJ.) [This 2020 update has been re-worked.]


**Day and Night**

**by CorellianBlue**

**(first published 1998, revised 2015 and 2020)**

_Warnings: language; sexual content_

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE to 2020 revision: completely revised, scene added. For your consideration.  
**

* * *

I know neither day nor night.

The chrono shimmers brightly in the gloom of my cabin. It is halfway through my sleep cycle. I have not yet closed my eyes.

My mind refuses to shut down. It intimidates me with angry images and memories.

But I lie here, waiting for sleep to come, counting down the seconds until I must rise and return to my duties, my responsibilities.

It does not matter that I have not slept.

It does not matter I probably will not sleep 'tonight'.

Whether I am tired or not, it is a requirement to report for duty. It is easier to work than not, so when I am awake, I work.

I am work.

The luxury of dividing life into absolute timeparts is alien to me. As is rising with the sun and retiring at night.

The memories of these moments haunt the darkness within me, blending with other faded ghosts…

…the warm touch of a summer breeze…

…the rose-streaked sky of an Alderaanian sunset…

…the bittersweet juice of jiluchen berries dribbling down my chin…

…laughing at a friend's joke…

I live on a continuum, washed along by the currents of my existence.

I am numb to the sharp edges of life—the pleasures, the pain.

I sleep.

I eat.

I work.

I am.

They call me by the titles of my former position, a fact that has not been so for three long years, and by my military rank.

"Princess," they beseech.

"Your Highness," they call.

"Colonel."

"Ma'am."

But never "child".

Never "friend".

Never "Sweetheart".

My name is a foreign word. No one has spoken it since _they_ deserted me, since _they_ left me to float about space on this cadaverous frigate while _they_ dashed off on their dangerous mission…

My three gallant knights.

They are certain of their success. So certain they _know_ it will be achieved. Their confidence is at once inspiring, admirable and scary as all hell.

I wish I had their faith.

I can't afford to think about them, or what they must accomplish. For once in my life, I am afraid of my mind. It sends thoughts to torment me; to make me conjure up emotions that threaten to overwhelm and consume; suck at my sanity.

I must not remember.

Dream.

Hope.

For here in the dark, in my bed, it is as real to me as if the nightmare is happening again… 

—o— 

…A burning, acrid stench.

Steam and carbonite vapour coughing up through metal decking.

An orange glare that stains all it touches. Our faces. Our clothes. Wookiee hair. Trooper armour.

All except the Dark Lord.

Noise and confusion. Yells and growls of anger, frustration and despair.

_This can't be happening. Not now._

Amid all this, I am drawn into Han's eyes. I watch myself reflected in them, small and pathetic.

Then his lips are against mine and he is kissing me with an intensity and warmth that I am familiar with, until they break us apart and drag him to the platform.

He is staring at me from where he stands. I can feel the fear lodged deep behind his eyes, but he does not show it, refuses to reveal any weakness to them, even now.

Too fast. Happening all too fast.

I am confused by the emotions sweeping through me. Old memories are dredged up. Memories I had banished to the depths of my mind.

_You would prefer another target—a military target—_

The bile rises in my throat. I want to do a hundred desperate things at once—rush into his arms and weep foolishly—throw myself at the mercy of Vader and offer myself in Han's place—wrestle a blaster rifle from a trooper and fight our way out of this chamber—throw my head back and scream—

I do nothing.

I am frozen to the decking, cannot move out of sheer terror and disbelief at what is happening.

Happening again.

_Dantooine. They're on Dantooine._

I need to tell him. Need to do something, anything— 

—o— 

No.

Damn them. Damn him.

I will not—cannot—think of this again.

I am destroying what minimal rest I have had.

I am better, stronger, than this.

It does me no good.

It does him no good.

If I must remember, remember only the good times.

Remember Han.

Han…

My dear, brave Han…

Strange that I seem to have acquired him as _mine_.

When did this happen?

When we were buried deep within the asteroid?

When he looked into my soul and stole my heart as easily as he stole my kiss?

When we first made love in his cabin en route to Bespin, revealing long repressed desires with words that can never be spoken?

No, before then. Way before then. Back to our first meeting… 

—o— 

…Exhausted from Vader's interrogations, I blindly rush from the safety of my cell, out into the terrifying light and noise of trooper fire. I am not impressed with the reckless and ill-conceived 'rescue plan' on offer.

"Can't get out that way."

I appraise the tall, lanky man who has advised me of the blatantly obvious with my trained diplomat's eye: Corellian; natural leader; some military training; no doubt a mercenary. A mouth as quick as his speed-draw. And drop-dead gorgeous.

He would roll his eyes and screw up his mouth to one side if he heard me describe him like that.

Han is many things, but he has no pretensions about himself. He acknowledges himself as a _"simple guy, just tryin' to survive in the galaxy."_

He knows how I feel about him. He has caught me watching him, admiring those lean, muscular lines when I thought no one would notice. When I thought he wouldn't notice.

The ruggedly handsome face, once-broken nose, scarred chin.

The easy smile that slips up the side of his face.

I have told him how I feel about him.

Three words. Three simple words that have revealed far too much about me.

Words that were spoken in haste and with regret.

Words that should have been spoken long before.

Words he did not return.

I regret the time we have wasted since our first meeting, since he rounded on my criticism of his jailbreak and suggested I return to my cell.

Perhaps that was when he became _mine_ and me _his_, for since then we have been linked. Squandering precious moments—entangling them in arguments and anger, encrypting true emotions in sarcasm and spite—but linked, inexorably and miraculously linked.

Despite my efforts, not one day has passed in the three years since that first meeting that I have not thought of him. Now…he is all I think about.

Little else besides Han fills my mind.

We struggled to deny our mutual attraction and affection. But ultimately, our destinies forced us to confront what was happening between us.

I should be grateful for what has happened since the Rebellion was defeated at Hoth. If he had not dragged me from the ruined command centre, forced me to leave…

Even then if I had made it to my transport as intended, I would not have admitted more than a passing thought of thanks for his assistance; just another rescue to add up to his tally.

"_That's about fifty-two you owe me, Princess."_

Should I thank the Empire for what has transpired between us?

Should I thank the _Millennium __Falcon_, that cantankerous old bucket of bolts and her temperamental hyperdrive.

Or is there something else I should acknowledge?

It's this stupid shirt I'm wearing.

His shirt.

That's why I can't sleep.

Why I insist on wearing his shirt is beyond me.

It is a childish, symbolic gesture, one I should not entertain, yet here I am doing it—again.

Sometimes I imagine I can still smell him in the fabric of this shirt. Like I could when I wore it the first time on the flight to Bespin.

I know I am deluding myself. The auto-valet unit has long since erased what trace of Han was left.

Han's shirt is all that I have left of those times. Of the moment we finally surrendered, gave in to each other.

Our needs.

Our wants.

Our desires.

His shirt and my memories… 

—o— 

…I lean into the curve of the _Falcon's_ acceleration couch, legs pulled up, ostensibly studying the borrowed datapad angled against my thighs—a very un-princess-like pose but I feel decidedly un-princess-like. Any interaction I have with Han seems to lead me to an un-princess-like state.

I still wear the shirt I stole from Han's closet when the valet unit's drying program failed, leaving my uniform sopping wet. The outfit has long since dried, but I continue to wear his shirt, the tails tucked around my pulled-up knees and bare feet.

I also wear a pair of the figure-hugging boxer briefs he favours, knowing full well that it will fuel his fantasies for years to come if/when he finds out.

My only concession to a sense of order is the single braid capturing my unruly hair.

Occasionally my head slips down inside the collar of the shirt and I inhale the heady aroma of his scent mixing with mine. It is driving me crazy.

Han is driving me crazy.

Facts and images about Bespin and Cloud City scroll across the datapad screen. I had wanted to prepare myself for what lies ahead, which is why I am supposedly studying the _Falcon's_ encyclopaedic database. I haven't absorbed _any_ information about the place we will arrive at in around four Standard weeks, just under 40 days.

I have been watching Han for the last few hours.

He has been conducting minor maintenance within the main hold and I have been covertly watching his every move.

Licentiously watching him.

We have hardly spoken since the beginning of this day cycle, since we tentatively awoke in each other's arms and hesitantly went our separate ways.

During the night cycle, Han forced me to confront what I felt for him and I realised it is more than friendship between us, more than anything I have ever felt for another man. I am inexperienced, and my uncertainty stopped me from exploring my feelings for him on a physical level.

Instead we talked, laughed, reminisced, came to understand each other better. Reluctant to end this time, we were then content to share his bunk, to sleep and nothing more.

It seemed strange to share a bed with another being for the first time. It was not uncomfortable or unnerving. It was inexplicably consoling and familiar.

Sharing his bunk—our sleep—the night—has changed everything.

There is a palpable difference to our relationship. I have been on edge since rising from his arms. A rawness jangles my nerves. A hunger gnaws at the pit in my stomach. I cannot concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds. If I did not know better, I would say that I am sick, and perhaps I am.

My mind is filled with Han.

I have no logical excuse for sitting here at the dejarik table; my study could be conducted quite easily and comfortably back in his cabin. But then I wouldn't be able to watch him.

And I need to watch him.

Chewbacca is aware that something has occurred between me and Han. He is giving us a wide orbit, choosing chores that remove him as far from us as possible. Even Threepio seems to have the sense to remain on watch in the cockpit.

I read a few sentences on the datapad screen, then let my gaze wander across the compartment to where he is working. He is wearing a pair of faded shipboard trousers that have seen better days and a charcoal-coloured short-sleeved undershirt.

As he has moved about his duties, I have viewed him from every angle: upright, biceps flexing as he tightened a valve; flat on his back with one long leg curled under the other, cursing in Corellian at some problem he found; kneeling, head buried in circuitry and components, his rear pointed tantalisingly towards me; hanging down into the engine pit, legs wrapped around a supporting beam, undershirt riding up across his flat abdomen.

I have marvelled at how these clothes have highlighted his strong physique, defining the lines of his body in shades of grey.

I wonder if he knows how seductive he looks, or is it just me who is captivated by the sight of Han Solo in work-stained clothes, tousled hair, greasy lubricants smeared across his face and arms?

It's just me.

He is sitting at the control station now, back towards me, verifying the success of his repairs. From the squareness of his shoulders and the angle of his head, I can tell he is satisfied with his work. I imagine that a rather smug and appealing smile has settled across his features, the smile I once found annoying.

My next concern is more immediate and disturbingly trivial: once he is finished and leaves the hold, will I have to find another excuse to be near him?

I am caught openly staring at him when he unexpectedly spins around in his seat to face me. My delay, combined with the speed with which I quickly begin scanning the datapad, is excruciatingly obvious. It gives away my game.

The pulse pounds in my brain as I hear him rise from the station and move towards me. The sound of his boots on the deckplates echo in my ears. It takes an eternity for him to traverse the short distance between us. For some reason, I am stupidly afraid of what will happen next.

Then he is in front of me and I can see the edge of his leg past the datapad's screen. Two work-roughened hands, grimy with sweat and grease, gently cup my cheeks and raise my face to his as he bends down towards me. His kiss is warm and brief. Our eyes meet as he pulls away. He smiles at the questioning look on my face.

"You looked like you could use a good kiss," he explains, recalling the argument we had in the corridors of Hoth Base.

I smile meekly, weakly, in return. I drop my head, forcing him to release me. I can't return his intense stare, so I avert my eyes. My mind—my whole body—is in turmoil. I try to come up with an appropriate response or action.

I am lost.

Han gauges my uncertainty, pulls away. He stands above me, silent. I can sense his confusion as clearly as if it is mine. I hear his mouth open as if to speak, then with a sigh, he closes it again.

"I think I'll get cleaned up," he finally says.

He strides off towards the crew quarters.

When he is gone, I angrily slap the datapad down on the dejarik table and toss my braid back over my shoulder.

This is ridiculous.

We can't go on like this for the next 40 days. It's not as if I'm a farm girl on her first visit to a big city.

I was a member of the Imperial Senate.

I was—am—a member of the Royal House of Alderaan.

I am a leader in the Rebel Alliance.

I am used to being in control of things. I am used to making decisions. I am used to making the _right_ decisions.

I am used to getting what I want.

I want Han Solo.

I decide to grant him some time to have a cycle in the refresher. After all, I'd prefer him clean.

Meanwhile, I sit on the couch and gather my courage and confidence. Sit on the couch, impatiently tapping my fingers on the table, trying to guess how long is long enough for him.

When I guess the time is right, I head towards his cabin, stopping at the secondary refresher cubicle to quickly check my appearance.

_Damn you, Solo. _He has deliberately left smudges of dirt and grease on my cheeks. I really didn't expect anything different.

I wipe away the evidence of his joke, releasing my hair from its single braid on impulse.

The hatch to his cabin is open; a smuggler who lives his life on a tramp freighter and a Wookiee has little need for modesty. My courage falters and I stop at the entrance. His back is to me as he dresses near the closet.

He is wearing a pair of his boxer briefs—like the pair I am wearing. For a moment, I am hesitant. For a moment, I simply admire his body. The soft fabric of his shorts reveals firm thighs and backside, lean hips, narrow waist. His shoulders are broad, strong, and the muscles stretch as he shrugs on a white shirt.

I am entranced at the thought of being held in his arms, caressed by his hands, pulled up against his chest and kissed like I've never kissed before. These are familiar urges, and they push me on.

Han checks his actions, head cocks slightly to one side as if listening, but he fluidly returns to settling the shirt across his back. I know that he is aware of my presence and he confirms this when he casually turns around. My heart trips, then escalates its rhythm as I hold onto the hatchway rim for support. Half-dressed, he watches me curiously, arms hanging loose.

I am nervous beyond reason, beyond belief. I shouldn't be like this. I have years of diplomatic training and experience as a senator.

But I know my limitations. I am a young woman, inexperienced. I am offering my innocence to this man.

Still, I step into his cabin.

Almost imperceptibly, his breathing quickens, his chest rising with each breath. He offers no clues as to what he expects; no guidelines for what I should do next.

For long moments, we stare at each other. Have we have reached another impasse in our complex relationship? Who will be the first to act, to reveal themselves to the other?

I realise that's not fair.

Han's intentions have been as obvious as his unsuccessful attempt to seduce me not 10 hours ago in this cabin. I rejected his advances, but not his companionship, and we slept in each other's arms, as innocently as one can with a smuggler.

Now, he is wary of _my_ intentions. He doesn't want to get burnt twice. Perhaps he doesn't wish to push me into something he is uncertain I am ready for.

But I _am_ ready. I want this. I want _him_.

I suppose this is up to me. I must be the one to act.

As these thoughts cross my mind, a flush of embarrassment and anticipation reddens my cheeks and I avert my eyes. At these strangest of moments, the words of my father, Bail Organa, come to assist me: _The longest journey begins with the smallest step._

I pivot on bare feet, palm the hatch shut and turn back towards him, raising my gaze to his. He has not moved. He is waiting for me to explain myself. The silence is unbearable.

"II don't know what I'm doing here," I offer, listening to the half-truth/half-lie of my statement.

He hears it also. "Don't know, huh?"

His eyes twinkle with mischief and the easy, lopsided grin appears. His amusement is infectious, makes me see the absurdity of the situation, and give him a slight smile.

"Don't smirk at me like that," I half-jokingly chide. "You know what I mean."

He nods in consideration. "Sure, I know what you mean." The hazel of his eyes deepens to an intense gold as his smile fades. "You wanna talk to me about your chances of converting Cloud City over to the Rebellion."

If he didn't ooze such an air of sensuality, and wasn't slowly moving towards me, I might believe he is serious.

"Or maybe you want to discuss the finer points of ion drive maintenance. You certainly seemed interested in what I was doing earlier."

Hmm. He _has_ been aware of the interest I have been taking in him. If I wasn't so nervous, I might be annoyed with him.

He is standing right in front of me, close, towering above me. I am energised by him. My senses are invigorated, tingle with anticipation.

"Or maybe…maybe you think you might want to make love to me." The back of his hand reaches towards my cheek, a callused finger delicately strokes a lock of hair behind my ear. "Is that closer?"

He's closer…closer than I have ever allowed another person to get to me.

His breath caresses my lips as his mouth hovers above mine, waiting. His eyes beckon, entice, promise.

"Yes," I agree.

His kiss captures me, carries me along on a dizzying rush. But he is restrained, gentle and more caring than I ever dreamed possible. His hot, delicious mouth grazes across my cheek, nibbles at my earlobe. My knees weaken and he steps closer as I instinctively clasp at his arms. My mouth opens and I can't suppress a sigh as his breath whispers into my ear. His cheek presses against mine as his lips move down the side of my neck, past the loose collar of my/his shirt to the base of my throat.

My pulse flickers at my neck, in my wrists and deep within my loins. His eyes return to mine, smiles encouragingly. Large fingers unfasten the front of my/his shirt.

He inhales as the shirt drops from my shoulders. Naked, I feel empowered standing in front of him, knowing that I am the cause of the desire burning in his eyes.

The heat rising from his skin.

The want in his veins.

Undressing him proves to be my undoing. As I reveal every part of him, I am entranced by his body.

The firm muscles.

The trace of veins and tendons beneath the skin.

The strength that lies within him.

The promise of thirst to be quenched, hunger to be appeased.

I am entranced.

I ache for him to hold me, to love me.

He smiles again, kind and caring. Whatever apprehension I have disappears as our fingers entwine.

We walk as equals to his bunk. 

—o— 

The rest…is a glorious mess of the times we made love in that cabin during that flight.

Becoming acquainted with his body, and with mine.

Learning how to touch, to stroke, to kiss.

Learning how to love, and how to be loved.

Discovering Han.

Discovering myself.

I have vivid recollections of that flight to Bespin. Images so substantial I sometimes awake, gasping at their intensity… 

—o— 

…I sit above him, my legs straddling his narrow hips, gently rocking. The exquisite touch of his hardness inside me is intoxicating.

He has been made especially and specifically to fit within me.

His hands slide up my thighs, my hips, the side of my ribs, tenderly cup my breasts. He flexes, throbs and I squeeze him in return with muscles that until recently I never knew I had.

A dreamy smile melts across his features and I sigh. I stroke his chest, fingers weaving through his chest hairs, brushing across his nipples. Emotions and levels of pleasure play across his expressive face.

Cannot resist the need to deeply kiss him, run my hands through his hair, my hips continuing to move.

Moaning, throw my head back and revel in the heat radiating throughout me.

Thrust my hips as I focus on the peak I crave.

Cry out in bliss, pitch forward onto his chest, my hair falling across his face.

His arms wrap around me as I quiver, pant, gasp.

My mind and body are overwhelmed.

Surprisingly, he chuckles in my ear, kisses my cheek. Confused by his reaction, I lever myself up on his chest so I can look at his face. His hazel eyes shine with delight and his lopsided grin encourages me to swipe the scar across his chin in rebuke.

A touch defensively I ask, "What's so funny?"

He unsuccessfully tries to curb his grin. "I was just thinking," he explains. "This is the first time I've been ravished by a princess."

I see the humour. But two can play at this.

"I'll have you know," I advise him mock-righteously, "this is a first for me, too."

"Naaahh," he drawls dismissively, but I nod my head earnestly. His eyebrows raise. "Well then," he amends, "you're a quick learner."

I smile at him ruefully, run a finger down his cheek. "I think I've had a good teacher."

"The best, Sweetheart," he tells me with a wicked grin. "The best."

How could I not agree… 

—o— 

…He is above me and within me, twitching with anticipation.

His cheek presses against mine, nuzzling my ear, my neck. The passion radiates from him and his mouth finds mine.

The kiss is hot, desperate. We part, breathless, lips still touching, seeking.

He _wants_ me.

His urge is as undeniable.

I am enveloped in his absolute _need_ for me.

He drives himself into my body, deeper, faster.

I run my fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck, over his shoulders.

He pulls me towards him, drawing me into his body as much as seeking to enter mine.

I lean up, kiss the base of his neck, the swell of his larynx, and am rewarded by the sexiest thing I have ever heard: Han moaning my name. 

—o— 

There is peace and stillness after we make love.

The gentle caresses of gratitude, happiness, accord.

His warmth enfolding me, holding me, falling asleep with his body cradling mine. 

—o— 

It is only when we explore one another, freely give and receive pleasure, that we grow to know and understand each other.

Our capacity for showing tenderness and care in private ebbs into our lives outside his cabin. The arguments and anger are gone. There is play in our banter, more than before, and we realise the strength and depth of our friendship.

We do not hide our displays of affection.

The simplicity of holding hands.

Sitting in his lap.

Openly embracing.

I have a weakness for pressing up behind him on tip-toes, my hips aching for that narrow ass. Han takes great delight in emphasising our height difference by kissing my forehead.

Underlying it all is the unspoken knowledge that it will not last.

Eventually we arrive on Bespin.

The love we share that night in Cloud City is more poignant than any time before. We are assigned separate sleeping quarters, but need just one room, one bed.

We are old lovers by now and our love is familiar, unconstrained, but not casual.

Slow, luxurious, savouring.

Memorising the shape of each other. Textures. Scents. Tastes.

Saying goodbye… 

—o— 

…The light from Bespin's twin moons drifts through the glassine window, bathing us in its glow. We lie naked at the end of the bed, sheets rumpled around us, pillows on the floor.

After 38 days of sharing his bunk and cabin, we have more than taken advantage of the gigantic bed and suite. I wiggle my feet appreciatively.

Han is on his back, chest rising quickly, breathing with exertion, eyes closed in complete relaxation—_recovering_, as he calls it. Pressed up against him, I am on my side, my head propped up on one hand as the other plays idly with the hairs on his chest.

I have grown to love watching him like this, lying naked in front of me, a sheen of perspiration glazing his face and body. I have always appreciated the sight of him, from a basic physical point of view, but when I look at him like this, something twinges within me and all I can think is how beautiful he is.

This is what making love with Han means to me; more than the physical act, as pleasurable that is, it is the intimacy that I love. When I feel closest to him. When we are a part of each other.

We lay in silence for long, peaceful moments, relishing it all—the soft mattress; the coolness of the bed clothes; the pleasant weariness in our bones; the air tinged with the scent of our love.

My fingers trace along his clavicle, down his right bicep. I burnish the fascinating scar of an old blaster wound and again wonder when he will tell me the story of how he received it.

With a shudder I realise, _Perhaps never._

There is a darkness on the edge of my vision. I quickly glance around the room, but there is nothing to be seen. I have been uneasy since the _Falcon_ entered Bespin's system. I had thought—hoped— that a night alone with Han would ease my tension, but it hasn't.

Something is not right. I have a bad feeling about this place.

I glance down at Han, as if he has called my name. There is a noticeable shift in the atmosphere between us; something intangible has changed. A slight chill in the air causes me to shiver and I move closer to him, seeking solace in his body heat. His breathing is softer, shallower, and he stares up at the ceiling, his eyes focussed beyond the decorative mouldings. The muscles in his jaw clench, but I continue stroking his arm. There is something on his mind. Something he doesn't want to talk about but knows he must.

I dread the moment he speaks.

"Y'know I have to leave," he says quietly.

His words sink through me, knock against the walls of my chest, settle deep in my stomach. Since we have become lovers, I have refused to think about his departure, the moment when he leaves me.

But it is obvious to us both; he—we—will never be free until he has repaid his debt to the Hutt crime lord.

I fear for his safety. But the thought that he will not be with me, and that he may not return, competes with my concern for his life.

I do not know which nightmare is more horrible. That he will die, or that he will choose not to return.

I touch the back of his hand to show him I understand. "I know."

I search his face, but he continues to avoid my gaze.

"I don't know if I'll be back." His tone is deceptive, indifferent. I know him well enough to hear his concealment. "I can't promise anything."

This is a new game we are playing. We have ignored it until now, blissfully and deliberately oblivious in our own bubble.

The game is dangerous and addictive. But it is time we sorted out where we are headed. I have a question I need to ask, but I don't know I want to hear the answer.

My voice is calm and clear. "Do you want to come back?"

"Do you want me to come back?"

He deserves no reply.

I roll from the bed, causing the mattress to shift suddenly and he turns his head. I rise quickly, anxious for him not to sweep me back into his embrace, but aching for him to do exactly that.

He does not.

Clenching my jaw, I gather my gown from the floor. As I slip my arms into the light fabric, I glance back to where he lies. He has shifted onto his side, his arm angled out towards me, face half-hidden by the line of his shoulder, as if he unsuccessfully reached for me, his actions arrested by either by my swiftness, my fury, or his second thoughts. His eyes gaze down at the sheets, then close disconsolately.

I turn and leave him and our suite, ensuring the door closes behind me.

The apartment's main lounge area is dark and quiet. Outside the broad window, the City lights glimmer as the sun sets. The apartment is empty except for the two of us.

For a moment I think about retreating into one of the other bedrooms and setting the lock on the door. But then that wouldn't give Han the chance to follow me, to apologise, to explain what he really feels.

I stalk around the room's circumference to the window. Cross my arms across my chest. Stare out at the lights. And wait for him.

Standing there alone in the coolness of the room, I acknowledge my actions for what they are: inappropriate, over-emotional and slightly childish.

I will not yield. I have a right to act this way. I _am_ in the right. We have established enough of a relationship that I feel entitled to behave this way.

The hair rises on the back of my neck and I shudder as the air temperature suddenly drops. The tiled floor is ice against my bare feet; I wonder if there is a problem with the thermostat.

Time seems to slow, as if frozen by the chill. My shivering has tensed the muscles in my neck and shoulders. I wish Han were here to rub away the tightness. His warm hands unknotting the stress.

What will I do when he leaves?

How can I face a night alone in my bed, by myself?

I have grown to love seeing his face as my eyes close, waking to find his body still wrapped around mine, the stubble on his chin scraping my shoulder.

_He's not coming._

I consider that he may have fallen asleep.

Or he doesn't care.

My thoughts become tangled, unshaped and desperate.

When I hear the door to our suite open, I am so grateful that I almost rush into his arms without hesitancy or reproach. But I persist standing on my stupid, moral high ground.

"Leia?"

His voice carries a lilting, questioning timbre, as if trying to comprehend my actions. I hunch my shoulders against him, pull my arms tighter across my chest. He sighs loudly.

I envisage what he's thinking: _You wanna do this? Play this game, huh?_

I can't imagine him wanting to abide by these rules. Not Han Solo.

But he again proves me wrong. He moves to my side, stands there solemnly and looks at me. I continue facing the window, not looking at anything, just making sure that _I _don't look at him. Out the corner of my eye, I can barely discern his features. His face is shrouded in shadows.

"Leia."

His tone is gentler, solicitous. Tears unexpectedly pool in my eyes, splash down my cheeks as I blink. I bite my lip to stop myself from trembling, stop the tears flowing.

I realise what I have known all along.

_I've lost him. He's gone._

With a muffled sigh, he pulls me into his arms. I lock my arms around his back, bury my face in his chest as he holds me, his cheek pressed against the top of my head. I don't want to think of anything except the warmth of his skin against mine, the softness of his lips on my forehead, the scent of him permeating my being.

_He's gone. As good as gone._

—o— 

We spend one more night together before they take him away from me. In the holding cell after Vader has sprung his trap. The Sith Lord is "concerned" enough about Han's health to grant him some time to recover from the torture before subjecting him to the experiment of the carbon freezing chamber.

I have not been harmed physically. Vader is aware of my resistance to mind probes and physical pain.

I have endured far worse.

I have been forced to watch them torture Han.

Even now, at such distance, the holo-vid images of Han strapped to the scan grid, screaming…screaming in agony— 

—o— 

The last night we share is relatively quiet and subdued compared to our recent nocturnal activities. Han sleeps for most of it, exhausted from the torture he has been subjected to. Lifelessly stretched out above me, he lies on the hard sleeping pallet while I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall, watching him.

Daring to hope.

Chewbacca has long ceased his restless pacing. He sits opposite me, his blue eyes flicking anxiously between Han and myself. He mutters the occasional word of consolation and encouragement. I don't understand Shryiiwook, but I can hear the forced comfort in his tone.

They are watching us, through the holo-cams in the corners of the room. Watching us react and interact. They have been watching us since we arrived on Bespin. Watching me and Han make love, sharing the precious moments we have left together.

I have no desire to sleep, but my mind insists I let go long enough that I lightly doze. I awake with a start as an arm slips around my shoulders. My head snaps up in alarm.

"Shh, easy," Han whispers.

Relief washes over me and I tenderly touch his face. His eyes are dark, skin pallid, but he smiles his lopsided smile and adjusts his hold around me. My spirits lift.

"Hi," he casually says.

My smile, like my voice, is small but appreciative. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugs dismissively. "A bit stiff, but that's the way you like me, right?"

I shake my head at his quip, smile again; his ability to find humour at the most difficult of times is one of the reasons that attracted me to him.

"You should get some rest," I suggest, indicating the bunk with a tilt of my chin.

His arm slips down to my waist and he snuggles up closer. "I thought you might be lonely down here."

Despite the wonderful feeling of his body pressed against mine, he needs to rest.

"I'm fine, Han. Really. I don't need comforting."

He lays his head on my shoulder. I gather my arms around his back, brush the hair from his forehead, graze my lips across his brow.

"Well I do," he says softly.

I hold him closer, shut my eyes against the pool of tears, and will away the shivering.

His breathing slows and deepens. I briefly disturb him to gently roll his head from my shoulder onto my lap. On his side, face turned towards me, he nestles closer, arms wrapped loosely around my waist. His eyes flicker shut again as I push my fingers gently through his hair, enjoying the intimacy.

Eyes still closed, he quietly tells me, "Leia, don't give in. No matter what happens. Okay?"

My throat tightens at the implications and meaning of his words. When I do not respond, he looks up at me, touches my arm.

"Just for once, will you do what I ask?" His sincerity is unsettling.

My lips form a grim line. I stare into those incredible hazel eyes, the harsh lighting of the cell sparking them with flecks of gold, green and chestnut. Words cannot express what I feel for this man, this complex paradox of things I now admire and have previously disdained.

Now is the time words should be spoken. If not now, then when?

_I love you, Han. I always have. But you know that, don't you?_

I nod my head.

"Don't humour me," he softly reprimands. "Or I'll come back and haunt you."

I turn my head from his unfortunate words, don't want to think of what lies ahead. But I look back when he speaks again.

"Promise me you won't."

I swallow and nod. "I promise." 

—o— 

Han left me something.

I did not ask him for it, nor did I expect him to give it to me.

But I will cherish and keep it safe for him.

Until he returns to me… 

—o— 

…It is our last day together on the _Falcon_.

We entered the Bespin system some 20 hours ago and are on approach to the gaseous giant which is home to Cloud City.

Like we have throughout most of our journey, we awake together in his/our bunk in his/our cabin. We fit in a brief but pleasant interlude before accepting that there is no putting off the inevitable. Until we decide that the inevitable is a cycle in the refresher…a long cycle in the refresher. Together.

Then Han leaves me in the 'fresher suite to finish getting ready: fixing my hair up into a coronet braid, the way I haven't worn it since we started sharing his bunk and cabin. He tells me to take my time, there is no rush, still time for breakfast—which he'll have waiting for me—before we enter the Bespin's atmosphere.

This is his non-too subtle attempt to stop my stress level from ratcheting up to the degree it was after we escaped from Hoth. He knows I am not comfortable with the idea of seeking help from a stranger, someone I know Han does not trust. But there is no alternative.

Cloud City will be our salvation, or it will be our downfall.

I step back into the cabin to commence dressing. Han has laid my Hoth-white snowsuit out on the bunk for me. I haven't worn it since we started sleeping together, preferring instead to wear his more comfortable clothes: his underwear; old sweatpants; tank tops; t-shirts; and a previously-never-worn long-sleeve shirt.

I have no desire to dress in the snowsuit as it represents the old Leia. Leia before Han. But I can't really walk around a city of several million wearing a pair of men's boxer briefs and a t-shirt. As much as Han may like it…

I screw my face up at the thought of climbing back into the restrictive suit, and am seriously considering if I could get away with wearing Han's sizes-too-big-for-me sweatpants when I notice he has placed something on the vest's rank badge.

His dice.

During one of our interludes in the cockpit—after Han kicked Threepio out from his observation duties—I asked Han about the aurodium-plated chance cubes that hung from an upper instrument panel. I had first seen the dice during our escape from the Death Star. Not once over the three years that I'd known him had it occurred to me ask if they held any significance to him. But that had been before our newfound intimacy.

Han self-consciously described them as a lucky charm from his childhood. A stupid (his word) affectation (my word), but he prefers to have them with him than not.

At the time, I hadn't pressed him further on what they meant to him or his childhood.

But I understand now, perhaps more than he does, what his gift represents.

I secret the dice away in an internal pocket of my snowsuit, next to my heart. Only I know where they are.

I do not mention the dice when I (quite literally) bump into him in the confines of the galley. The kaffe is already steaming in our mugs and he is trying his best to make the last of the dehydrated eggs edible.

I snuggle against him from the rear, place my arms around him and lay my head against his back. He stops the breakfast prep and clasps my hands against his chest.

We stay like that for what seems an eternity and not quite long enough, never long enough. Silent, our bodies implicitly communicating as they have for the last four weeks, parting only when Chewbacca appears behind us, looking for his mug of kaffe. 

—o— 

I have no holos to remind me of Han.

He did not like to have his image taken—an old habit of one who lives on the wrong side of the law. But I have one memory that I carry with me constantly, that stands out from all the others. One that I stop to look at when I need reminding of the promise I pledged… 

—o— 

…Sunrise…the last we will see together…

Naked, he stands near the window of our suite in Cloud City, gazing out at the pod car traffic that sweeps by. The dappled tibanna-laced colours of the sky illume his face in profile, define his body in gold and bronze. The serene touch of a smile turns the corners of his mouth. I call his name, and he turns towards me, his face beaming brilliantly in response.

"Hey, beautiful," he calls.

Laughing, and with a bound that sends body parts jingling, he launches himself back into our bed, and captures me in an embrace that can mean only one thing.

I wish he had told me.

Maybe he did. 

—o— 

Forty-three minutes until the chrono alarm activates.

I must have fallen asleep.

Part of me wants to rise now, attend to my duties early, leave the dreams and the memories behind. It wouldn't be a first. I suspect they are beginning to expect it from me. I'm afraid I've become a predictable, cheerless workaholic.

More so than before I lost him.

Han always believed in living life for the moment, to its fullest. He would not be impressed with what I am doing to myself.

Sometimes I think he has kept his threat to come back and _haunt_ me. I imagine him pointing that finger of his in my face and lecturing me as effectively as I've been known to lecture him. But then, if he _was_ here to lecture me, I would have no reason to leave bed so early.

"_To hell with the datawork, Princess._ _I've got a more interesting proposition to put to you."_

—o— 

Mmm…what a wonderful idea…

…_the warm caress of his skin…_

…will it matter if I lie here a while longer…

…_his knees hooked behind mine…_

…close my eyes and drift for a few minutes…

…_his stomach and chest pressed against my back…_

…Relax. Reach out. Touch his spirit…

…_his breath whispering through my hair…_

…and maybe…just maybe…I can find him.. 

—o— 

"_I love you, Leia."_

"_I know."_


End file.
